


my heart burns there too

by Tib



Series: my heart burns there too [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Death, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Female Reader, Implied Sexual Content, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Smart Reader, Tags will be updated, Violence, Work In Progress, romance???, some lesbian action in the future between the reader and another female character, the reader is Jon's younger twin, very fucking slow okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-03-13 07:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18936265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tib/pseuds/Tib
Summary: Being part of a bastard set means that life is not so kind with you. Jon, your twin, the only one who can share an understanding with you, is leaving for the Night's Watch.And you? Only the gods know what life has in store for you.





	1. Winter is Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!  
> Let me say that there are not enough plot-driven, torturous slow burns for The Hound and the reader. I can fix that.  
> In the beginning, the story will follow the tv show's plot very carefully. You'll notice that I use lines directly from the show. However, sooner or later, the story will shift slightly, and it won't follow the show as closely as before.  
> The "love story" within is a very, very, very slow burn. Because, while romance is a big part of it, the story focuses heavily on the reader living through the shitshow that is Westeros and the way the reader changes. And then later, waaaaayy later, she'll get dicked down hard by The Hound. Eventually.  
> Please enjoy!  
> PS this is not beta'd so if anyone would like to give it a go, let me know :*

The afternoon chill has never kept the good people of Winterfell from enjoying their day. Men and women bustle around the courtyard, doing their daily work, talking and laughing amongst each other. As you walk through the crowd, you rub at your sore hands. A day of needlework left your fingertips covered in red, stinging pinpricks. You had been in a rush to finish your studies with Septa Mordane. Your focus was elsewhere most of the morning, as you’ve never been particularly fond of your time spent studying the proper ways of a lady. It isn’t wholly unbearable; just entirely too dull.

The sound of laughter pulls your attention towards the stables. You make your way towards them, and your brothers’ voices grow louder as you approach.

“Go on,” Jon’s quiet voice reaches you. He leans down by Bran. “Father’s watching. And your mother.”

On the landing above, your father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and his wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, watch Jon and Robb teach Bran how to use a bow. As you draw closer to the boys, Lady Stark takes notice of you. Her eyes harden when you both meet eyes, so you quickly turn away. Lady Stark is a fierce woman, and unfortunately, she hates you, through no fault of your own. However, she does have good reason to. You and Jon are the twin bastards of Eddard Stark. Your existence is a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity.

You ignore her hard stare and watch Bran try to hit his target again. He misses.

“Your grip is too tight, love,” you comment. Your brothers turn at the sound of your voice, but it’s Bran’s disheartened expression that keeps your attention. “You hold the bow in a fist, but it needs to rest between your thumb and forefinger. Relax the rest of your fingers around the bow and keep your hand loose.”

“Should you not be with Septa Mordane?” your father asks you from above.

“I finished early today, my lord.” You don’t dare call him “Father” in front of Lady Stark. He only nods in response and turns his attention back to his sons.

“Try again,” Robb tells Bran.

Robb is the eldest of the Stark children. He is kind to you, even acknowledges you as his family, but nevertheless, there is a hierarchy that must be followed. He is set to be the future Lord of Winterfell, and you’re only his half-sister, a bastard. This tends to put a stop to any further sibling bonding.

Bran tries again, and his aim is a bit better, but he still misses his target completely. Jon and Robb laugh. You hear a smaller laugh to your left and see Rickon, the youngest of the Starks, giggling along with them.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” Father challenges. The laughter ceases. “Keep practicing, Bran.”

The young boy listens and begins another attempt as his older brothers give him quiet encouragements. Before Bran can release his shot, another arrow flies by, hitting his target in the dead center.

Everyone turns to find the culprit. Arya, the youngest daughter, curtsies coyly with a bow in her hand. Without hesitating, Bran darts after her, laughter following the pair as they go.

You help the boys gather up their stray arrows. As you finish, Theon, Lord Stark’s ward, approaches, requesting Robb and Jon to accompany Lord Stark to take care of a Night’s Watch deserter.

You frown at the implication, though there’s little you can do. The law is the law, and your father remains true to it.

You make your way out to the glass gardens. Sometimes you pick the herbs and flowers that are grown there. Inside the glass gardens is warm, heated by the hot springs. It smells sweet and earthy. You spend most of your time here because it is a relaxing place to be. Usually, the gardens are empty, but when they’re not gardeners come to harvest the plants. Even then, the workers are quiet folk.

You're not inside for long before you begin to work up a sweat. The sun shines through the glass ceiling, and the moist, warm air is enough to leave you uncomfortably heated underneath your winter clothing. You don’t mind it, as you never have before.

Maester Luwin noticed your interest in plants long ago when you were just a young girl. He taught you some of the ways the plants were used to help people. Lilac can be turned into a paste for burns. Or maybe lavender for pain. The angelica flower can help with coughs.

You had been so fascinated by this information and quickly took to it. On your first blood, you made a tonic out of the peonies to ease your stomach pains.

Not that any of this information would do you any good. You could not be a healer in some small, quiet village. It’s a sweet fantasy, but your future rests in the hands of your father. And if Lady Stark has any say in it, you’ll more than likely be married off to a fat, lowly lord.

You sit amongst the flowers, enjoying their floral scent mix with the musk of the earth. You sit until the sun begins it’s slow descent toward the horizon. You’re content enough to linger a little longer, but Arya’s high voice interrupts you.

“There you are!” she exclaims. “You have to see what our brothers brought back with them.”

You smile, willing to indulge your younger sister. “And what is that?”

“Come see, quickly,” Arya grabs your hand and pulls you out of the gardens. You have to lift your dress to jog after her. She’s quick on her feet, much like you were at her age.

You see your twin near the gates. The men seem to have just returned, and you’re wary of approaching until you notice what’s in their arms.

“Wolves?” you ask, stepping closer to Jon.

“ _No_. They’re _direwolves_ ,” Arya corrects you delightedly.

Your brows arch in confusion. “This far south?”

“The mother was run through by a stag,” Robb hums, stepping closer. “She left behind some pups.”

“Oh! You should have brought back the antlers. The velvet promotes healing. Er, well,” you stumble over your words at the exasperated looks your siblings give you, “only if they were not yet fully formed.”

Your twin rolls his eyes at you. “Here,” he thrust a small wolf into your arms. It’s small, white, and tiny. The runt of the litter no doubt. “Keep it.”

“Gods, no!” You try to hand him the pup back, but he refuses. “Jon, I won’t raise a wolf.”

“Well, I don’t want it.”

You frown at him. “How many were there?”

Theon walks by, answering, “Five pups. One runt. Seems fitting one of you two take the sickly one.”

You wince at his jest and try to ignore his obnoxious laugh. You’ve always found Lord Stark’s ward to be too arrogant and loud. His rudeness is hardly unfamiliar. As a bastard, you get used to that kind of treatment. You’re a little luckier than Jon, being a girl. You’ll get married off. He has no right to father’s name, so he’ll be left with nothing except whatever he makes for himself.

“Ignore him,” Jon glares at Theon’s retreating back. “And take the pup.”

He walks away, leaving you with little choice. Arya looks up at you, her own pet in hand. “Isn’t this the greatest day ever?”

You offer her a strained smile, and she quickly runs off with Robb to deliver the rest of the orphaned wolves to the Stark children. The runt that rests in your arms whines, and when you look down, it licks your chin.

“Okay.” You reach up and scratch behind its ears. “I’ll give you a chance, little one.”

You spend the rest of your evening thinking up names for him. You cheekily try calling it Snow, your bastard name, and it growls in response as well as any puppy can.

“You’re right. Snow isn’t a very good name.”

Eventually, you settle on the name Ghost. The runt takes to it quickly and even follows you around Winterfell as you enjoy the rest of the evening. It’s hard to not be drawn in by his cuteness, and after a few moments with him, you’ve fallen in love. You let him slip under the furs of your bed and sleep next to you.

The next morning, you go to do your work with the Septa. Most of the girls are already seated, including your half-sisters. Arya, who usually is grumpy during her studies, is energetic this morning. Sansa, the eldest Stark daughter, looks ecstatic.

You take your seat between them. “What’s going on?”

“Prince Joffrey is coming to Winterfell!” Sansa, who is ordinarily cold towards you, grabs your arm in cheer.

“What? The prince?” You briefly consider that Sansa might be playing a trick on you, but that’s not like her. Arya would be one to try to trick you. Hearing this from Sansa means it must be true.

“And the imp! The king, the queen… they’re all riding for King’s Landing as we speak!” Arya tells you. “Father told us yesterday.”

“Enough, girls,” Septa Mordane interrupts. “There will be time for gossip after the lesson.”

You go through the motions of the day in a haze. Why was King Robert bringing himself and his company all the way Winterfell?

After another day of hurried needlework, you sneak your way out of Winterfell. You have to make Ghost stay behind, as his presence would give you away. It’s a habit of yours, making your way out of Winterfell in disguise. You must, considering your destination and your title. It wouldn’t be good for Lord Stark’s girl bastard to be seen in the winter town’s brothel.

You make your way inside and spot one of the girls, Mallory. She meets your eyes and nods, letting you know it’s safe for you to make your way towards Ros’ private quarters.

Ros is a dear friend of yours, but she’s also a whore, so you’re careful when you visit her. You can’t disgrace your family any more than you already do.

She’s in her room, making herself look presentable. Her place is small but more extensive than the other girls’ rooms, who have to share quarters. She’s a favorite among the buyers, and naturally, gets special treatment.

“Love,” she stands to hug you, “it’s good to see you.”

“You as well.” You pull away from her and take a seat on her bed, pulling back your hood. “I have news. I hope you might have more information than I do, honestly.”

“And what is that?”

“King Robert is coming to Winterfell. Along with his queen, their children, and her family.”

Ros doesn’t look as surprised as one might expect, but you know how smart she is. She listens to the men she serves, always keeping an ear open for gossip.

She takes a seat beside you, the bed dipping under her. “I knew the King was coming. I hadn’t realized the queen and her family would as well.”

“But why?”

“Theon told me that the King’s Hand died.” When she tells you this, her face becomes solemn, and you shudder at the implications.

“Jon Arryn?”

She leans toward you and grabs your hand, warming your fingers with her own. She lowers her voice to nothing more than a whisper, “Yes. And you and I are both too clever not to see why the king is coming all this way.”

There’s little doubt in your mind that your father will not turn down the king’s request. Lord Stark is far too loyal and honorable to abandon his old friend. Likely, he will become the new Hand, and you will be forgotten. It’s unlikely you’ll be allowed to stay in the Red Keep as a Snow.

You groan collapsing back onto the bed, Ros following, resting her head on your chest. “I suppose it’s good news for you, no? If the Lannister brothers are coming, then you’ll be keeping the imp’s company. I heard he’s prone to all manners of perversion.”

“Really?” Ros hums thoughtfully, “I’ve always wondered if he would have a small cock.”

Both of you fall into a fit of laughter. You linger a little longer while Ros gossips about the men she’s been with. Theon, apparently, is quite adventurous in the bedroom. Ros laughs at your look of disgust when she tells you this.

In the month leading to the king and his party’s arrival, you spend your time studying with the Septa or training Ghost. When the chance arises, you visit Ros at the brothel and gossip. Where you want the month to move slowly, it passes swiftly, like you had slept it away. Your fears were justified—if Father were to leave you behind as he should, you would be left in the hands of Lady Stark, under her watchful eye. Or worse, your father would rush your fate and have a marriage arranged before he left.

You had no qualms about getting married. Not any that you voiced, anyway. Admittedly, you’d prefer to never be married and live somewhere peaceful and quiet.

But those were only dreams.

On the day of the royalty’s arrival, you dress like the little lady you won’t ever be. A delicate dress that the Septa helped you make, as you’re not very good at making clothing as Sansa is. Septa Mordane often tells you that you have vision, but no means to execute it. A polite way of saying, “You’ve no talent.” At the very least, she was kind enough to help.

You watch as Bran climbs down, an indulgent smile on your face. You favor Bran out of your siblings, as he’s the most adventurous and soft-hearted. You never worry about him falling from the stone walls, as he never will. He never has.

Once he reaches the ground, he bounces to you. “They're here!”

“Your hands are covered in dirt.” You grab his hands, wiping the grime from them. “You must look presentable. It’s important to your mother.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, clearly distracted.

“And don’t let Lady Stark seeing you climb. She’ll have your ear, boy.”

He smacks your hand away as you tug his ear teasingly. Together you walk to the gates and await the king’s party. You stand next to Jon, hidden away behind the real Stark family, as it should be. All eyes are on the party. Soldiers come forward, and behind them, Prince Joffrey follows. He’s not a very cute boy, but a quick glance towards Sansa’s profile tells you she thinks otherwise, all smiles and red cheeks.

Behind the prince rides in The Hound, Joffrey’s personal guard. His helmet is specially made and shaped like a snarling dog. You can’t see his face, though you’ve heard many tales about him from your brothers and none of the stories painted him favorably.

A meticulously decorated carriage comes forward. The queen and her children are in it, you’re sure. What draws your attention is King Baratheon, who comes out from behind the carriage. A life of royalty has done him well, belly rounded from eating and drinking in excess. Something only a king can enjoy.

He dismounts his horse—with the help of servants and a small wooden step—and makes his way over to Father. He’s wearing an angered expression, which scares you slightly.

“You’ve gotten fat,” King Robert comments snidely after giving Lord Stark a once-over. Father doesn’t respond, but he must do something, because suddenly the men laugh, gripping each other in a fierce hug. As they pull away, you make brief eyes contact with the king. You immediately turn your eyes downward, heart hammering in your chest.

You still feel his eyes on you, worry rising. If you’ve offended him…

But no. The king moves on, speaking with your half-siblings. You let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Relief floods through you. When you look up again, you see the queen stepping out of the carriage with the rest of her children. She’s beautiful, and her children inherited her softened features and golden hair. Myrcella is a gorgeous young girl, and Tommen is just as adorable as Bran was at that age.

A knight takes his helmet off. You think nothing of it at first, but then realize it’s Jaime Lannister. He’s dashing, reminding you of a prince from the stories Septa read to you.

Thankfully, the king leaves with your father to head down to the crypts. The crowd disperses, and you quickly move for your rooms. You’re to look suitable for the following feast, despite knowing you will not be allowed to attend it. Lady Stark didn’t want to offend the king or his family with your presence.

The sun has set by the time you leave your room, and content to stay there, but you worry for Jon. So you make your way to the great hall, where the festivity has already begun. Outside, Jon is hitting a dummy with his sword like there’s a real soldier at the end of his blade. You know your brother well enough to see that he’s upset.

“Can I try?”

He stops, turning towards you. Your question amuses him, and he smirks. “With your weak arms?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You step forward and take the sword from Jon, letting it dramatically fall to the ground in your hands. “Oh, how horribly heavy this is!”

“Ha-ha. Have a go, then.”

He steps back more than necessary. You don’t blame him. You were joking, but the sword _is_ heavy. Not so heavy that you can’t lift it, but you doubt that you’ll be able to swing it as quickly as Jon did. You try anyway and somehow completely miss the dummy, swinging over the top of it.

Jon lets out a deep chuckle, much like the one he let out with Bran completely missed his target with the bow and arrow. You pout at him, though you don’t mind being laughed at if it means Jon is less upset.

“You’re overcompensating for the weight of the sword.”

You heed his advice and try again. This time you do hit the dummy. Not as forcefully as Jon did, but nevertheless, you hit it. You continue at it, Jon offering advice when needed and even showing you some techniques to use. You understand why Jon trains when he’s upset. You’re less anxious than before; calmer, despite the energy that flows through you.

“Is he dead yet?”

You turn at the sound of the familiar voice. Uncle Benjen dismounts his horse, a warm grin on his face. Jon steps forward to hug him, and you drop the sword—and are more than happy to, seeing as your arms were burning from the exercise. Once they release, you hug him as well. It’s been so long since you last saw your uncle, his arrival is a pleasant surprise. He kisses your cheek before he takes a step back to look over the both of you.

“Why aren’t the two of you inside?” he asks.

“Lady Stark felt that it might be insulting if the twin bastards were in the midst,” Jon answers. His face sours then shifts to something more determined. “But I know I’d be accepted at the wall.”

“Aye,” Uncle Benjen nods. “The Night’s Watch would never turn away a bastard.”

You frown at the thought. Jon, away at the wall, fighting wildlings and cohabiting with criminals. You didn’t like the idea but understood it. Maybe better than anyone else. As a male bastard, Jon would have nothing to inherit. Indeed no lady would marry him, as he had nothing to offer. There is little love in the world for bastards.

By some standards, you are lucky to have been born a girl. Father acknowledges you, you’re sure you’ll have a small dowry. Marry some lord from a vassal house. If it came to that, however, you would likely run off. You may have Stark blood in you, but you don’t see it fit to honor these politics if they never honored you.

“If you ask father, he will let me. Uncle, please. Let me ride with you back to the wall.”

You step away until the two men finish their conversation. You cannot change Jon’s mind any more than the wind can.

Benjen pulls you into another hug before going inside. Judging by Jon’s face, he isn’t pleased with how their talk went.

“You know,” a new voice sounds from behind you both. “I’ve always wanted to see the wall.”

“You’re Tyrion Lannister,” Jon says, quite dumbly, in your opinion. “Queen’s brother.”

_No shit, Jon_ , you think to yourself with a roll of your eyes. _How many dwarves are there in Westeros?_

Lord Tyrion looks to his hands. “My greatest accomplishment,” his voice is bitter.

You snort at his comment, and the Lord looks up at you. “The two of you,” he glances between you and your twin, “are Ned Stark’s bastards.”

You give Jon credit for not cussing the lord out while in such a foul mood. Instead, he turns away. Lord Tyrion is quick to apologize, and he seems honest enough that Jon turns back to him.

“You are the bastard, though,” Tyrion says. He turns towards you. “Both of you.”

“ _Snow_ ,” you begin. You shake your head, bemused. “A shame we’re not Dornish.”

The corner of the imp’s lips lift. “Oh, I like you.”

Jon looks confused and cuts into the conversation. “What would it matter if we were from Dorne or not?”

Your twin was never a scholar. He didn’t care so much for his studies. He isn’t stupid, you wouldn’t dare insult him by suggesting that. But his talents lie with the clanking of metal, not the turning of pages.

“In Dorne, bastards are not looked down upon,” you tell him. “They are seen as a mere consequence of passion and love.”

The Lannister nods. “But you are both from the north, no passion or love spared for you.”

Again, Jon gets upset. He is young and easily offended, but he’s learned to keep his temper in check. Still, this doesn’t stop the imp from noticing, who turns his sights solely on Jon.

“Let me give you some advice, bastard.” He leans against a wooden post and continues, “Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.”

He turns to walk away, but Jon stops him with an angry question: “What the hell do you know about being a bastard?”

Tyrion takes a few steps back. “All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

After Lord Tyrion leaves, you decide to retire to your rooms. Jon was no longer in the mood for company, and you are not one to linger where you don’t belong.

You didn’t hold the Lannisters in high regard, but after observing the youngest Lannister brother, you find yourself endeared with him. He’s bright, and his sense of humor boggles you. If it were you in his situation, you don’t think you’d be as witty.

But of course, you are you, and no one else. The thought gives you some comfort as you drift to sleep.

The following day there’s to be a hunt. You do not share everyone’s excitement, though you are glad to be rid of a day of studies with the septa.

You decide to spend your morning in the glass gardens with a book in hand. As soon as the familiar earthy smell greets you, your body relaxes, and you calm. You take a seat on the stone bench next to the winter roses. They’re beautiful. Many men would agree that they’re the most breathtaking flowers in all of Westeros or even the world. You’re more inclined to disagree. There are many flowers, why is this one the most beautiful?

That hardly mattered, though, not when you had a book to entertain you. You selected a book of poetry, not interested in spending your morning on more substantial sorts of reading.

You stay like that, reading in the warmth of the gardens, but not for very long. The sound of yelping and whining come from outside the garden walls. You think nothing of it at first, assuming Ghost wants to see you (you don’t let him into the gardens, for the sake of the plants). But the whines become more persistent, and curiosity gets the better of you.

Ghost is outside like you expected, but next to him is Summer, Bran’s wolf. He’s pacing around nervously until he spots you. Summer barks at you, demanding your attention. The sight of him alone, without Bran, causes nervousness to fester in you. Even more so when he begins to lead you to the direction of the old tower.

As you draw closer, you can make out a figure on the ground at the bottom of the stone walls. You begin to run towards it, staggering. Your fears grow as you close the distance between you and the figure.

At the bottom of the tower is Bran, unconscious and bloody.


	2. Kingsroad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is up! I'm not as happy with this one as the previous one, and I might have rushed it, but I hope ya'll enjoy it. xx :)

Lady Stark keeps you from helping Bran as much as you would like, but Maester Luwin lets you help him make the medicines Bran may need. Outside of that, there’s very little to do, and you find yourself visiting the godswoods more than you ever have before.

You kneel beside the weirwood and let your eyelids fall shut. Somehow, you feel the red eyes of the tree on you and believe that the gods are watching.

 _Watch over Bran where I can not_ , you pray to the gods. Tears come to your eyes, helplessness rising in your throat and suffocating you. You sob, your shoulders rising and falling. _I want to help him. I want him to live._

A gentle touch on your shoulder. You should have been frightened, but you recognize the soft feel of your father’s comfort.

You wipe your eyes and turn to him, his sad smile soothes your heartache momentarily. A quiet breeze moves between you; the sound of leaves ruffling reaches you—your father chuckles.

“The gods were listening.”

You nod, pressing your lips together. The thought makes whatever helplessness you had felt melt away. Father offers his hand to you, and you take it and stand up.

“I was praying for Bran,” you choke out, your voice lost to you in your momentary sadness. “I can’t see him, so I must pray.”

Father looks empathetic to your plight, though if he truly understands, you don’t know. “Maester Luwin tells me that if it had been anyone else who found him, his condition might have been worse.” He grabs for your hand. “Thank you.”

With the case Bran was in, you had to be careful with him. You didn’t know what kind of internal injuries he may have had or what bones were broken. You had almost panicked and grabbed him, which would have made his state worse. Thankfully, you caught yourself.

Shakily, you laugh. “There’s no need to thank me, father. I may not be a Stark, but Bran is kin to me as much as Jon is.” Your teeth come down and bite your lip as a thought crosses you. The same idea that had crossed your mind since you found Bran at the bottom of that tower. “Father, Bran doesn’t fall. He just doesn’t.”

He frowns and questions, “What are you suggesting?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“ _I don’t know,_ ” you hiss desperately. “But, you must be careful in King’s Landing.  You must.”

He nods in a way that makes you think he already planned on being cautious. “Aye, of course, I will.” He gives you a pointed look, “But you must be careful too.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused.

He grins, “You’re coming with us to King’s Landing.”

“Really?” Your brow lifts in surprise. “I had thought I’d be allowed to go.”

“Of course you are. Who else will watch over Arya for me?”

Your lips lift until laughter takes you. Your father joins in, and despite your fears, you’re glad. To see new things would be fantastic. And to know you’ll be with Arya and your father, the only two people you’re close with besides Jon, is a relief. And you know the gods and Maester Luwin will watch over Bran while you’re away.

Father tells you to be ready, as everyone rides for King’s Landing tomorrow. That night, you toss and turn, hoping to get even a small moment of rest. It never comes, and you settle for getting ready early. Ghost watches you from your bed, and a sad smile slips onto your face.

“Don’t worry,” you tell the wolf. He’s much bigger now, growing quicker than you anticipated. “I’ve got plans for you.”

You make your way to the courtyard, nervousness bubbling in your belly. It’s early enough in the morning that the sun has only begun to peak out a bit. There are not very many people out currently, but you spot The Hound, leaning by the stables. You had never seen his face before, but it’s easy to tell who he is. The scarred, burnt flesh on the side of his cheek gives him away. It’s a gruesome sight. It makes perfect sense that he’d be the prince’s guard. He’s a scary looking man, and when you make eye contact with him, you quickly look away for fear of upsetting him. The Hound is certainly not someone you want to notice you.

To take up what time you have before you must leave, you make your way to winter town for one last visit to Ros. She’s the only real friend you have, and you’ll truly miss her. You simply cannot leave without saying goodbye.

“Wait,” you tell Ghost. “Stay here.”

Ghost sits, and you take a moment to applaud yourself for training him so well.

When you arrive at the whore house, you take your hood down right away. There’s no need to hide this early in the morning. No client is here this early, not even the loneliest of old men.

You make your way to Ros’ quarters, opening the door without knocking. You had expected her to be asleep, but to your surprise, she’s up and dressed, shoving what little she has into a small sack.

“And where are you going?”

She hadn’t noticed you yet, so your question causes her to jump and turn frantically. When she sees you, the relief on her face is visible. She laughs, “You mustn’t scare me like that.”

“My sincerest apologies,” you tease, stepping into her room and closing the door behind you. “So… where _are_ you going?”

A sly smirk covers her face, and the sight makes your heartbeat to quicken. “To King’s Landing.”

Your mouth falls open in pleasant shock. “Truly?”

“Truly, my love. The customers there have more coin to spare,” she purrs.

You don’t think of her dirty comment, too overtaken by excitement. You reach forward and pull her into a hug. “Oh, I’m so relieved. I thought I’d have to suffer in that hellish place all by myself.”

“I was wondering if you’d be allowed to go,” she says, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. “I’m glad.”

“I wasn’t sure at first.” You pull away from the hug, and she looks earnest. You explain, “But Father said I was to leave with them today.”

“You won’t have to be so careful visiting me there,” she says. “No one knows our faces there.”

The thought thrills you. As good as you were at sneaking, it could be difficult. And it served as a constant reminder of your place in this world.

You leave the brothel, pressed for time. The sun had nearly risen completely, and you hurry back to the Winterfell.

As you pass through the gates, careful not to let the guards see you, Ghost gets up, tail wagging at the sight of you. You lean down and pet him, just as Jon approaches.

“You smell like a whore house.”

“Well,” you say, standing. “I had to say goodbye to Ros.”

Jon is the only one who knows of your dirty little secret. More than likely, he is the only one who could ever understand it.

“You need to eat,” he tells you, handing over a small loaf of bread and dried meat. “We’ll be leaving after breakfast.”

You change the subject, solemn, “Jon, there’s something I want you to do.”

He furrows his brow in response. You continue, “I want you to take Ghost with you to the wall.”

He glances down at the wolf, who looks between the two of you with his head tilted.

“I don't know…”

“Jon.” Your tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. “You’ll get more use out of a direwolf than I will.”

He’s quiet again. You can tell he’s doubtful and hesitant, but you won’t take No for an answer. “I’ve trained him well. Take him with you.”

Finally, Jon nods in agreement. You feel better, knowing everything is situated the way you would have preferred it. Ghost belongs in the north anyhow. Not the south.

The time comes for everyone to leave. You’re not allowed into a carriage like your siblings are, so you ride horseback. Unfortunate, as you know you’ll start feeling sore in less than an hour.

You ride out of Winterfell until those headed for the wall have to fork away in a different direction. You wish Jon and Ghost a tearful goodbye. You try not to think about the dark possibility of losing your brother while he’s at the wall. The thought alone is enough to cause you to shiver.

You have a month of traveling ahead of you, and there is little for you to do. You don’t know anyone really, so you’re stuck keeping to yourself. By the time a week has passed, you’re proficient at reading while riding. You’ve managed to bring a few books with you. Or, well, maybe not a few. You have more books with you than clothing, as you don’t think you’ll make many friends while staying with the king and the Lannisters. The books will have to do.

And they do keep you busy on Kingsroad, but they do very little for distracting you from the hot beating of the sun. As you travel farther south, it only gets more unbearable. To add to your discomfort, your thighs and hips ache from the pain of persistent riding. When you would stop briefly, you make sure to walk and stretch out your legs, but the ache never goes away.

To be fair, you’ve never traveled far from Winterfell. You simply weren’t used to long riding.

Finally, you arrive at the inn at the crossroads. There’s not enough room for the entirety of the party, but Arya is sweet enough to let you room with her. You have an inkling though that she only agreed to share so that she would not have to room with Sansa. The two sisters did not get along.

While the light is still out, you read more. You thought the heat of the sun would be comparable to that of the glass gardens, but it’s not the same. The sun _burns_ , it doesn’t _warm._  You’re not sure you’ll fair well. You’ll undoubtedly be purchasing different clothes, better suited to the climate of the south.

Still, you find reading in the sun all very peaceful.

Until it isn’t.

The prince arrives at the inn, screaming, claiming to have been attacked by Nymeria. Grimacing, you think of the consequences Arya and her wolf will face. And, the girl, scared and stupid, hides away until the sun has long since disappeared under the horizon. The Lannister’s soldiers and your father’s men search the forestry for her. Unfortunately, it’s the Lannisters that find her. They bring her to the king right away, something you know will serve to upset your father further.

Briefly, you consider speaking on Arya’s behalf while waiting for your father, but you’re too frightened of the consequences. Instead, you stand by Jory and wait patiently.

 _Coward,_ you think to yourself, as you watch Arya get berated by the queen.

It’s not much longer, until your father arrives, face stormy. Arya profusely apologizes, and Lord Stark cradles her. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands the king. “Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?”

Queen Cersei goes to reprimand your father for his less than gentle approach, but the king cuts her off. He looks to Lord Stark, “Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl, but we need to get this matter sorted quickly.”

Again, the queen speaks, voice cold, “Your girl and that butcher’s boy attacked my son. That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off.”

Her tone chills your blood, but Arya stands firm, claiming it to all be a lie. She claims the prince tried to hurt the other boy, Mycah. Soon enough, Joffrey and Arya are calling each other liars and fighting.

“Enough!” the king yells, effectively silencing the children. “He tells me one thing, she tells me another. Seven hells! What am I to make of this?” he pauses briefly, “Where’s your other child?”

“Asleep,” Father answers.

“No, she’s not.” Queen Cersei calls out, “Sansa, come here, darling.”

Sansa comes out from the back of the inn, head low and visibly shaken. Seeing her look like this, following the beck and call of the queen, worries you. Surely Cersei doesn’t have that strong of a hold on her already?

“I don’t remember, your grace,” Sansa stutters out when the king inquires about the incident. “It all happened so quickly.”

“Liar!” Arya exclaims. “Liar, liar, liar!” Arya grabs Sansa’s hair, tugging it fiercely. You step in immediately and separate them.

“Arya,” you hiss in her ear. “Stop this. Now.”

That does the trick, and Arya loosens her hold on Sansa. You separate them, stepping between the girls.

You wish you could explain to Arya the importance of her silence and cooperation. But she’s young, and she doesn’t listen. If she would just behave…

“That girl is just as beastly as her animal. I want her punished.”

“What would you have me do? Whip her through the streets?” the king asks incredulously. Judging by the look on his wife’s face, that would please her greatly. “Dammit, children fight. It’s over.”

Cersei is not happy with this. “Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life.”

King Robert turns his attention to his son, scorning him. “You let that little girl disarm you?”

The prince has the grace, at least, to look ashamed. The king looks back to Father, “Ned, see to it that your girl is disciplined. I’ll do the same with my son.”

“Gladly, your grace.”

You let out a sigh of relief, glad for this to be over, but your comfort comes too quickly. As everyone makes to leave, the queen tries again to seek justice suitable to her tastes. “And what of the direwolf? What of the beast that savaged your son?”

One of the Lannister soldiers informs the king that there was no trace of Nymeria. The king, again, seems ready to be rid of all this, much like you. “So be it.”

“We have another direwolf.”

_Oh, curse this wicked bitch._

Your earlier cowardice seems to dissipate. You step forward, by your father, and bow. “Your grace, if I may?”

There’s some silence. You wonder what others might be thinking. A bastard, approaching the king? How horribly inappropriate.

The king doesn’t seem to mind, a small blessing. He motions for you to straighten, and you quickly do. When you meet his eyes, he looks pained and curious. Just as he did when you caught eyes at Winterfell.

“If the children were to fight again, and they will, or if the wolf mistook play for an attack on my half-sibling, then it could very well hurt another child. Certainly, it cannot come to King’s Landing.” You pause to draw a shaky breath. “However, I hope that you might be so courteous as to allow that the wolf be set freed, as opposed to executed for a crime it did not commit.”

The silence is deafening. You can hear your heartbeat, loud and clear. You hate speaking in front of all these people. Sickness pools in your stomach. With an unsteady hand, you reach up and rest it on your abdomen, hoping to ease the ill feelings away with sheer willpower.

“Aye, I’ll allow it.”

Before you can enjoy your moment of success, the queen speaks. Again.

“My love, please,” she steps towards her husband, “what if it were to attack another child? One of your subjects?”

The look of mild torture on Robert’s face tells you that you’ve lost. The nausea you calmed is now back, a swirl of fear and defeat upsetting you so that you can hardly stand to speak a word. Your eyes seek Sansa, who looks to understand what the final decision will be.

The king turns his tired, sorry face to your father. “The wolf has to go.”

Sansa and Arya start screaming, directing their ire at the queen. “Lady is good!” “Lady did nothing wrong!” but their arguments fall on deaf ears.

You move towards your sisters, grabbing them both by the shoulders. “Quit screaming, it accomplishes nothing,” you hiss at them. _If only they had minded themselves,_ you think. _Stupid, stupid girls._

Jory escorts them back to their rooms, Sansa sobbing hysterically behind him. Tears come to your eyes, her sorrow echoing in your chest. You turn to Father, who looks much older than before. His frown and sad eyes deepen the lines of his face.

He’ll be the one to kill Lady.

_“The wolf is of the North. It deserves better than a butcher.”_

The words ring in your ears as you make your decision and follow Father out.

“Don’t come.” Lord Stark does not even have to glance behind himself to see that you’re following.

“Father, please,” you reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, begging for his attention. “Let me go with you.”

“No!” He turns to you, eyes narrows. “No. I can’t. You should not have to see things like this.”

You frown, frustration taking over you. For once, if you could just get your father to listen... “Please! I-I have a horrific sense of foreboding. Help me become stronger, so I can protect myself. The girls, too.”

Lord Stark’s shoulders droop after a moment of silence. He sighs, and you know he has given in. “You’ve always been so sensitive. You cry when someone else is sad like you could feel their pain. You remind me of my sister.”

You choose to say nothing.

Another sigh and father turns away from you and starts walking. “Come along then. I want this done.”

You hurry behind him. As you head to where Lady is being kept, you come upon The Hound. The closer you draw, the clearer the forms become. The butcher’s boy is dead, draped across the horse’s back. You stare, mouth agape.

Your father slows his steps, stopping completely as The Hounds moves on past you. “The butcher’s boy. You rode him down?”

The Hound doesn’t stop, continues to guide the horse by you. At first, you think he may just ignore Lord Stark, but his voice, husky and deep, responds, “He ran. But not very fast.”

Your hand comes to your heart. The child couldn’t be much older than Arya. The Hound’s loyalties are to the Lannisters… could the queen have ordered this? Or even let the prince command it? What kind of people will you and your family be staying with?

You try not to think of it, and begin to walk ahead of your father. You think you might vomit, but tonight was not a night to show weakness. You steel yourself and walk faster.

Father kills Lady, while you coo and pet at her. You only let a small frown slip at the sight.

That night, Arya curls against you, clinging desperately, while she cries herself to sleep. You envy her. Sleep eludes you that night, and the horror that sits in your chest only tightens its grip around your heart.


	3. Lady Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Work has been busy, and my schedule has been fucked. :( I ended up rushing this chapter, and I'm not entirely satisfied with the ending, but I didn't want to make you guys wait any longer! (Lmao, I knew I should have prewritten several chapters before posting to avoid an inconsistent posting schedule, but I'm too impatient!)  
> So, with all this business going on, my posting schedule is gonna be a little chaotic while I adjust. I think for the next week I'm gonna work on planning out my next chapters a bit more in depth, and then hopefully have the next chapter follow that next week. But we'll see!  
> Also, if you'd like, follow my tumblr (@tibic) for updates on the story process! I'm also, like, in desperate need of Sandor lovin' so I might take request for one-shots if time allows it!  
> Enjoy! xx

King’s Landing is beautiful and massive in size. You used to think Winterfell was too loud on its busier days, but now you realize it does not even begin to compare to the massive crowds of King’s Landing. It creates some confliction in you, as you enjoy the quiet, but you’d like to watch the people here move about there day and compare it to what you know of Winterfell. Get a better view into the lives of this new place you’ve been invited too.

When you come upon the Red Keep, it’s the architecture that captures your attention the most. It’s wonderfully crafted, and coming upon it felt akin to a religious experience. You had never seen anything like it.

You’d love nothing more than to roam around the castle and walk the streets of the city (any excuse to get off this wretched horse), but Lord Stark is called to business as soon as you arrive, and you and your sisters are told to go off and get settled.

You help Septa Mordane move the girls in. It’s strange, the double life you feel you live. While you’re a bastard of a prestigious lord, you tend to find yourself helping handmaidens or doing other menial chores meant for servants. Despite this, you’re still expected to act as if you were a first true-born lady. You count it as a small benefit to being born out of wedlock—two lives to lead, two worlds to experience.

When it’s your turn to move things in, you’re pleasantly surprised that you’d be rooming with the Starks, in their private wing. You have your own quarters, even. They’re not as spacious as your siblings’, but it’s more than what you had expected. Your father acknowledges you, as he always has, but it still comes as a bit of a shock when others do too. Honestly, you thought you’d be roomed with the servants.

You take dinner in your room, deciding to hold off your adventuring until the next morning. Like the last several nights, your sleep is fitful. When you finally get the chance to sleep, that is. Since the incident at the inn, many nights have passed you by with no rest to carry you through. Even with the lack of sleep, you don’t feel particularly tired. Though there are moments when exhaustion takes over your body, and you struggle to stay on your feet. The fatigue doesn’t linger, but you know you need to correct this before you faint and make a fool of yourself.

After another restless night passes you, you get ready for the morning. Even with little rest, you’re excited to explore the sights of the city. It energizes you, and you go to breakfast with a skip in your step.

There’s a banging sound coming from the dining area. It gets louder and louder as you approach, and concern nearly creeps in and ruins your happy mood, until you realize it’s just Arya stabbing her food repeatedly. Sighing, you make your way to the table and sit down.

You feel bad for the girls, yes, but by the gods are they annoying. Their constant bickering is enough to give anyone a headache. Even you and you’re relatively unbothered by most obnoxious antics.

“What are you doing?” you ask Arya, taking a seat next to Sansa.

Arya stabs into her food over and over, not stopping even to spare a glance your direction. “Practicing.”

“Practicing for what?” Sansa asks, glancing towards her sister. Her lips curl in disgust as she watches Arya mutilate the food.

“The prince.”

“Arya!” you reprimand. The girl has no sense of discretion, and it upsets you because you know if she’s not careful with her thoughts, she’ll get herself killed.

“He’s a liar and a coward, and he killed my friend!”

“The Hound killed your friend,” Sansa hisses between her teeth.

“The Hound does whatever the prince tells him to do.”

You wince at the mention of Mycah and The Hound.  You can see the child’s pale skin and slacken face in your mind’s eye. You’re grateful Arya was spared from witnessing such a sight.

“You’re an idiot,” Sansa’s voice rises.

Arya’s voice matches Sansa’s, angry and vindictive, “You’re a liar! And if you told the truth, Mycah would still be alive!” Arya stabs her food one last time, leaving her knife stuck in her plate.

“Enough!” you yell, slamming your hand on the table. It startles them, but you pay no mind. Their fighting had gone on long enough.

Arya gets up from her seat in fit, just as Father arrives. “What’s happened here?”

Septa Mordane stands, hands on her hips as she stares your youngest sister down. “Arya,” she begins, disapproval in her voice, “would rather act like a beast than a lady.”

Arya looks to the ground, though you see no hint of guilt in her face. Lord Stark sends her off to her room. “We’ll speak later,” he tells her. She leaves without a trace of remorse.

Briefly, you wonder if you should follow her, but you’re too hungry to be bothered. You wouldn’t let the girls’ fight didn’t ruin your appetite.

Father moves to the table, placing a wrapped package in front of Sansa. He takes his seat, “That’s for you, love.”

Sansa opens it, lacking any emotion other than her usual sneering expression. Inside, there’s a beautiful doll, smiling up at the empty air. Sansa is not impressed.

Our father must be able to tell. “The same doll maker makes all of Princess Myrcella’s toys. Don’t you like it?”

“I haven’t played with dolls since I was eight,” she looks away from her gift. “May I be excused?”

Father lets her leave. When she’s left the room, he turns to the septa. “War was easier than daughters.”

You smile at his comment. “One wants to be older than she is, and the other is more interested in swords than concerning herself with the etiquette of ladies.”

He sighs, reaching up to rub at his forehead. Being here in King’s Landing ages him. He’s tired and weary. As soon as you all arrived, he had been called to a meeting. You wish you could ease his stress, but there’s nothing for you to do. Your father isn’t a proud man, not overly so, but he still would like to deal with his stresses on his own than ask for help.

“You were never like that.”

You think back to your childhood. Whispers that followed you, the looks of pity, Lady Stark’s cold eyes like needles pricking your skin.

“No,” you frown. “I was too preoccupied with seeking redemption from sins that were not my own.”

You leave the table. Your appetite is gone.

Ros isn’t in King’s Landing yet, as she hadn’t planned on leaving Winterfell until a day or two after the royal party left. If she were here, you’d go straight to her. She understands you so well, maybe more so than Jon. It’s easy, being honest with her. Sometimes, it’s like she knows what you need without your having to say it.

Without your friend to comfort you, you go to Arya’s room. She’s younger, less capable of handling her emotions than you. And you’ve been harsh with her and Sansa ever since the incident with Nymeria, so you want to correct that and help them with a softer, more gentle, guiding hand.

You knock, calling out her name through the door. Arya opens it, quickly turning away afterward. She’s trying to hide her face, but you catch a glimpse of her puffy eyes before she turns away.

“Love, come sit with me,” you move to the trunk at the end of her bed, and you both take your seats.

She doesn’t speak, just looks at her hands, picking at her nails. She sniffles.

You lean down, peering at her. “Do you want to talk about Mycah?”

Arya shakes her head. You bite your lip, finding yourself at a loss for comforting words. You feel guilty about how you handled her emotions before. You know you didn't try to understand them at the time.

“Sometimes,” you start, careful not to upset her further. “When I’m mean with you and your sister, I regret it. I just get so angry at the two of you, because I worry for you. I don’t want you to find yourself facing consequences that could have been prevented.”

“You think I should keep my mouth shut.”

“No! I don’t think that at all,” you quickly deny, but it’s not entirely true. You only think she should keep her anger to herself. She makes threats that could get her killed. You continue, “It’s just… I can be mean because I don’t understand what you’re feeling. Or I don’t stop to consider it. Help me know how you feel, right now. About everything.”

She glances at you, her bottom lip sticking out as it quivers. “I hate them. All of them.”

“Even your sister?”

“No. Not really,” Arya shakes her head. “But she’s so stupid. How could she like a boy like Prince Joffrey? He’s a murderer and a liar and a coward. I wish he was dead.”

You wince, quietly praying to the gods that she should never say that in Queen Cersei’s presence. “Sansa isn’t like you, Arya. She wants to be a queen and have princes and princesses.”

She mocks a gag, and you can’t help but laugh. Truthfully, you find Sansa’s romanticism just as distasteful, but she’s a lady who enjoys stories of knights and princes rescuing fair maidens. It’s only to be expected that she’d want that for herself.

“Will Father make you get married too?”

You grimace at Arya’s new line of question. “Most likely,” you answer.

“Do you want to?”

Quiet settles in, and you’re unable to find your voice. Tears begin to gather in your eyes and blur your vision. You try to hold them back—you’re meant to be comforting Arya, not crying to her in her room, dammit. It’s useless though; the tears fall, and Arya throws her arms around you.

It’s been a persistent fear of yours, marriage. You try to avoid the thought of it, tried to pretend it would never happen to you, but you can feel it pressing closer, the inevitability of your betrothal following you like a shadow.

You’re pulled from your grief by the sudden knock at the door. You stand quickly and leave, pushing past the person behind the door. You realize it’s your father, his voice following behind you, “What’s wrong with your sister?”, but you ignore it and keep moving until you’re in an empty hallway. You lean against the wall, trying to catch your breath. You long for Winterfell. For Ros and Jon. You want to sit in the glass garden or pray at the godswoods. You want home.

But yearning for them will do you no good, so you resolve yourself and decide now is the perfect time to explore King’s Landing. Keep your mind occupied with happier thoughts. You leave the Red Keep, keeping your head low. No one knows your face, not yet, so you should be able to get away without an escort for now.

Quickly, you realize you should have brought your cloak. The Hound stands within the hallways of the castle, and the last thing you want is for him to spot you. With your head lowered, you move past him, set on getting out of this place without anyone interacting with you before you do. You’re in no mood for tense conversation.

You pass him successfully and ignore what you think is an amused chortle coming from him. It makes your blood turn hot, but you move on until you’ve made your way out of the Red Keep.

You first want to visit the dockside marketplace you heard about from eavesdropping on the citizens in the way through the city. You’ve never set foot on a ship before, let alone seen one. Theon would always talk about how much he missed the smell of saltwater, but you could never understand it. You had never left Winterfell before now. It’s all you know.

You make your way through the crowded streets, hoping that you don’t get so disoriented you get lost. You made sure to know the directions before leaving, but you have no sense of direction. If you get turned around, you’re not confident you’ll find your way back. So, you steady your nerves and push through people. The crowd isn’t so big that you’ll get swallowed by it, but it is big enough to unnerve you.

Thankfully, you make it to the docks without any issues. You breathe in the air, and you’re finally able to appreciate what Theon meant about the smell of the ocean assaulting the senses. It’s peaceful. Or, it would be if there weren’t so many creepy men leering at you. But you move on, keeping your eyes ahead as you move forward, avoiding unwanted, lingering eyes.

You see a stand of tonics and herbs, precisely what you’re looking for. Imported plants that you’ve never seen before, only read about in books.

“See anything that catches your attention, dear?”

The merchant notices your interest and is not so subtle in his excitement at a potential sell. You’re under the impression he doesn’t see many buyers.

“Actually, I do.” Your eye the dried plants and labeled tonics. There’s bottled snake blood. Your nose wrinkles. There’s no use for that, not under any circumstance. You keep looking, but then your eyes linger on a bundle of dried vines.

“Yellow jasmine?” you ask. A plant with no other uses that you’re familiar with besides poison.

The merchant looks around, checking the faces of people. Suddenly, you feel out of your depth, wondering if you’ve come to the right place. Maybe you should have visited the inner-city markets instead.

“Yes,” the merchant leans forward, voice lowered conspiratorially. “And if that’s what you’re interested in, I might have something else for you.”

You size the man up—old and dirty, eager to please. Harmless. You nod, “Go on.”

He reaches under and pulls out a small bottle of clear fluid. You guess it’s contents immediately, but decide to play the fool. You roll your eyes and cross your arms across your chest, “Water? Are you trying to trick me?”

The smile that spreads across the merchant’s face is humorous and smug. “No, my dear, I swear by the old gods and the new. This is no water. This here is Tears of Lys.”

“A poison, I presume?”

He hurries to shush you, looking around once again, not turning his attention back to you until he’s confident that no one overheard. “Yes, yes. No taste. No smell. Undetectable. And unassuming, ‘cause it leaves the drinker feeling ill quickly. They’ll think nothing of it, ‘cause it’s just a sudden sickness is all. Then, well… you know what comes next.”

Death. Could you do that? Could you kill someone if you felt like you needed to? You bite your lip, chewing at the skin. While it’s true you don’t feel safe here, not in this strange city, locked away in the Red Keep with cold strangers, you don’t know if it’s any safer there with a bottle of poison. If you were to get caught with it… the queen would have your head, and your father wouldn’t be able to save you.

“How much?” you ask, still undecided.

“20 golden dragons.”

You wince at the price, your decision made. You step back from his stand. “I’m sorry. Good day.”

Before you get the chance to turn from him, the merchant calls you back. “Wait!” he calls, waving you to him. With a sigh, you give in.

“I can’t afford that kind of expense,” you tell him. Truthfully, you could. You have nearly 60 dragons on you, all from years of helping around the gardens or watching your siblings. But you wouldn’t waste it on a purchase such as this.

The merchant frowns, eyes moving over your face as if trying to gauge your honesty. “I can lower it. 15.”

“I can’t.”

He hisses, mumbling in a language you’re not familiar with. “10. But that’s all I can do.”

A pause. A carefully timed hum and nod. “Okay,” you reach into your small pouch and pull out the agreed amount, careful not to let your other coins make too much noise and give you away.

He eagerly accepts your money and gives you the bottle. “Remember, a small few drops will do.”

You turn away from him, ignoring his instructions. You smile smugly to yourself, hiding the bottle away in your dress. You’ve read many books about betrayal and murder. You know what Tears of Lys does to it’s intended drinker. You know it costs more than 10 dragon pieces; even more than 20, but the merchant is a fool.

It might be that you never need to use the poison, and that’d be preferable to you, but you want to be prepared. Even if it sickens you to the core, you’ll do what you have to protect your family.

_It’s clear they’ll need it._


	4. Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trick, a book, and a joust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Ya'll know how life gets.  
> Just FYI--no matter how long it takes for me to post a new chapter, I have no intentions of giving up on this story. xx  
> THIS CHAPTER IS UNEDITED

 

The sun beats down on you, and while you find the southern scenery breathtaking, you really hate the sun. 

You don’t have the opportunity to see it often. Not in Winterfell, where it was cloudy and cold. Even when the sun was out, it hardly affected you, the winds and grey sky easing away it’s harshness. But here in King’s Landing, there were few clouds in the sky. The few that were out are fluffy and white, and you swear one of them forms the face of Bran.

You wish he could be here with you. Since you’ve gotten word of his condition, you’ve considered every possible idea of treatment. When Father informed you Bran wouldn’t walk again, you denied it. 

 _It couldn’t be possible_ , you told yourself. _He loves to ride horses and run and explore. He loves to climb._

But whatever the gods had planned for Bran, he must not need his legs. You laugh bitterly at the thought. You’re grateful Bran is alive, but how is he suffering now? Is it worth it? You wish you could speak with him, know how he feels. Certainly, he’s no happier about it than you are, likely less so. 

For the first time in your life, you feel useless. When Winterfell had been plagued by illness, coughing fits and high fever, it was _you_ who helped the Maester find the perfect treatment. You helped one of the whores in Winter Town deliver a child. You helped Arya when she cut her knee falling. 

There is nothing you can do to help Bran.

That’s why you’re here in the gardens of the Red Keep. Its beauty distracts you well enough, though you can’t help but feel a bit of smugness at the lacking diversity in the garden’s collection. The glass garden of Winterfell is the superior garden, of that you are sure.

With a quiet sigh, you lean your head back and let your eyes fall closed. There’s little for you to do today, and you were perfectly content to let the sun burn your skin, and regret it soon after. 

A shadow falls over you, blocking the sun. The redness of your closed eyelids darkens to black, and you’d be thankful for it, but you let your eyes flicker open to find The Hound. Horrified, you straighten yourself and gape at him.

“You’re enchantment with this place won’t last long, little bastard.”

You’ve never heard him speak before, so deep and warm. Gruff from years of fighting. Briefly, you think it’s attractive but push the thought aside immediately. You’d have none of that. 

His comment annoys you, and anger builds in your stomach. You’ve disliked—no, _hated_ —him from the moment you saw him walk by with the butcher’s boy slung over his horse. But for him to call you a _little bastard_ , like some pet name, upsets you the most. Fire burns inside of you, crawling along your skin and stinging like the sun. 

“I see you’ve got some spare time. Are there no innocent children to slaughter?” You don’t know what has come over you that gives you the courage to sneer at him. Seething, your tongue presses against your teeth, jaw clenched tight to keep you from saying more. 

He towers over you. You expect The Hound to yell, threaten you, but instead, he raises a brow and a look crosses his face as though he’s impressed with you.

You feel your cheeks heat from the sun and embarrassment. You don’t want his approval, so you bare your teeth like a wolf cornered. _A hound does not scare a wolf_ , you remind yourself as you try to quiet the tremors in your hand.

“Why are you here? Leave me,” you demand, though you stand yourself, more than ready to make haste if he won’t.

The Hound’s eyes travel along your body, and you try not to show any vulnerability by covering yourself; the southern clothes were less modest than you were used to, but you hadn’t given it a second thought, too distracted by the beauty of it. Now, the way the silken fabric clings to your body feels like betrayal. 

“Lord Stark sent for you and your sister,” he says, averting his eyes from you. He gazes over your head, eyes focused on the horizon. He seems less interested in you than before, eyes cold and distant. It’s more intimidating than his earlier amusement but much more welcomed. You didn’t want any form of familiarity with the man.

“And why is it you’re the one telling me this?” 

He’s quiet for a brief moment, probably deciding if you’re worth explaining himself to. “The prince insisted he escort his betrothed. He sent me to find you while he did so.” 

You huff, annoyed by the blind faithfulness with which The Hound follows that little brat. That level of... _devotion_ doesn’t belong to a nasty little boy like Joeffrey.

“Thank you,” you say, pushing past him. As you walk away, you realize that you had just been courteous with him and it irks you. You mentally berate yourself, upset you had spared a moment of kindness for him, especially when he is not deserving. You had been trained to be habitually kind and mindful of your manners, a result of your title. 

Truthfully, you’d have preferred to say _fuck you_ , but it’s for the best you didn’t. Who knows how far the prince’s dog has to be pushed before it bites?

You make your way through the castle to your father’s office. There you find him, looking over an old tome, frown lines and wrinkles marking his forehead. Father has been busy with his new title as the King’s Hand. You often see him walking through the castle, mind somewhere too far off for him to notice your presence. It pains you to see him so stressed, but he still walks with purpose here, as he did at home in Winterfell. He is, after all, a man dedicated to his duties. 

You clear your throat to grab his attention, “You sent for me?”

He looks up, seemingly surprised to see you. A look of confusion crosses his face. “No, I did not. Did you need something?”

“No? But you...” you trail off, realizing your error. You keep yourself from baring your teeth in rage when you recognize that The Hound has tricked you. 

 _That bastard_ , you think as you force a kind smile for your father. “Oh, I’ve made a mistake. Still, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you in some time. How are you faring?”

With a heavy sigh, he leans back in his seat. Again, you notice just how old your father is getting. You can see it in the way he holds his shoulder, tense and straight. Even his eyes somehow look older, holding the wisdom of his years.

“Between the two of us, love, the king is a fool. He insists on holding a tournament in my honor, yet there are no funds for it.”

You raise a brow, “Truly? A single tournament? Is the crown in debt?”

He nods, a pained look on his face, and that admittance shocks you. He glances between you and the door before leaning forward on his desk. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, low. 

_He doesn’t want anyone to hear._

“I need you to be very careful here. Watch over your sisters. There are eyes following everyone’s movement. Ears strained to listen for any information that can be used.”

You swallow nervously, sombered by this knowledge. “How do you know?”

“Lord Baelish,” he tells you. After a moment of pause, he continues, “Don't trust that man.”

That wouldn’t be a problem for you. You don’t trust anyone that considers King’s Landing home. 

“Okay, I’ll watch over the girls,”—as you always have—“but what is it that is worrying you?”

Now, Father drops his voice to a whisper, “You were right. Bran didn't fall from that tower. He was pushed.”

The thought constricts your heart so tightly for a moment, you think you can breathe no longer. But the horror leaves you just as quickly as the rage sets in. “Who would do something like that? How do you—”

He quickly quiets you, glancing to the door once more. “Love, it is important you don’t speak a word of this to your sisters.” You nod in quick agreement, eager for him to continue. He holds your eyes, and for a brief pause, you can feel the fear your father feels for you and the rest of your siblings. 

“Someone tried to murder Bran before he woke. A stranger with a dagger that once belonged to Tyrion Lannister. Cat held the man off until Summer attacked him.” 

Your smile is grim, but you can’t help but be proud of the direwolf. More surprisingly, you find yourself admiring Lady Stark for her strength and love. That kind of act is a mother’s instinct, something you don’t understand, but can appreciate.

Something still bothers you. Why would Tyrion Lannister, a man of intelligence and biting wit, try to murder you brother? You find it unlikely. 

“Why Tyrion?”

“I have an idea,” he says in a way that suggests he will not be sharing it with you. You don’t push it.

“But you truly believe it to be Tyrion?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And Lady Stark was certain as well?”

“She is the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you bite your lip, conflicted. “If you believe it, so do I.”

Father nods and finally relaxes in his seat. Just as he moves to speak again, a knock sounds at the door. Father lets them in, and both of you are relieved to find it’s Jory.

“Another meeting, my lord.” 

Father groans and you have to stifle your giggle of amusement. His exasperation is comical with the way he gets this incredulous look on his face.

He nods to Jory and stands. He kisses your head as he exits his office. 

“Be smart,” he whispers to you.

When they leave, you stand in the silence of the room, trying to grasp what you’ve just learned. It’s not surprising that Bran was almost murdered, though the supposed guilty party seems wrong.

 Tyrion Lannister. It doesn’t fit, but what do you know? You’ve only spoken with the man once. Perhaps you grew too fond of him too quickly. 

Just as you make to leave, you notice the tome on the desk. The one your father was reading: _Th_ _e Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children_.

You frown, bothered by the lengthy title. A strange feeling comes over you, compelling you to hide it amongst the other books in the room, for your father’s sake. You don’t question his interest in the book, just take note of it, and leave for your quarters.

The next day you find out that your father had been called away to another meeting regarding the Tournament of the Hand. It would be taking place, despite your father’s protests. 

You didn’t voice it, but you were excited for an entertaining distraction. The night plagued you with thoughts of Bran’s condition, his attempted murder, and the _why_ s that cane with it. It was taking a toll on you, killing any appetite you had and ruining any time you took to relax.

So, when the tournament arrives, you happily take a place between your sisters. It might have been more suitable for you to sit behind your family, but you weren’t interested in being proper today.

Lord Stark is missing when you arrive, and you hope your father isn’t off somewhere buried in his work. Or worse, trying to find a way to persecute Tyrion. Not just yet, for it’d only put a strain on your family’s stay. 

You hide your distaste when Lord Baelish takes a seat next to Sansa, and you recall Father’s warning. _Don’t trust Littlefinger_. Still, you must act like someone new, someone naive and unaware of King Landing’s politics. So, you wear a polite smile on your face and sit straight, like a young lady. 

Yout eyes roam over the crowds and stop on the royal family. Beside them, guarding the prince, stands The Hound, face blank and disinterested. You’re reminded of the trick he played on you days earlier. Strengthening your resolve, you look away, not wanting anyone to see the disdain on your face. 

Sansa must have been looking towards The Hound as well; besides you, you hear Lord Baelish ask, “Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?”

You draw in a long breath to keep from saying anything rude. You want to glance their way, but keep yourself from letting on that you’re listening.

“The Hound was just a pup. Six years old, maybe. Gregor, a few years older. Already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with the talent of violence,” the word hisses from Littlefinger’s mouth, and you cringe. “One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire. Gregor’s toy—a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word. He just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted.”

You keep your face forward as Baelish, _the cunt_ , turns to your sister. He whispers, “There’s not very many people who know that story.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” Sansa’s voice shakes and you clench your fist.

Before Lord Baelish can respond, you grab your sister’s hand and pull her attention toward you. “Look at the Queen, Sansa. Doesn’t she look beautiful?” You lower your voice, “You’ll be sitting there one day, next to your King.”

This seems to do the job you intended it to. She giggles girlishly, and you join her. You play the dumb young girl as well as you can, so you don’t raise any suspicions with Lord Baelish. 

When he begins speaking with someone else, you take the opportunity to tell Sansa, “That story Lord Baelish told you—” Sansa moves to cut you off, but you continue, voice quiet, “Everyone knows it. It’s no secret.”

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion, but you let her work out what it means that he lied to her. The fact that Littlefinger tried to manipulate her like that, scare her... It makes your blood boil.

But it is true: everyone knows the story of The Hound and his brother. You used to hear your brother’s whisper about it when you were but children, as though it was forbidden gossip. Word of it came to Winterfell, so surely everyone here knew of it already. 

As you push away thoughts of lashing out at Lord Baelish, the tournament begins. You let yourself get absorbed in the events. The Mountain goes up against Ser Hugh of the Vale, and you place a quiet bet on The Mountain in your mind. 

And you were right to. Just as the joust begins, it ends with Ser Hugh on the ground. Wood is delved in his throat, and you watch helplessly as he gurgles on his own blood. You wish to reach for him, give him some milk of the poppy or lavender oil, if only to ease the pain. A man shouldn’t think of his pain as he dies, but instead, his home.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. When Sansa reaches for your hand, you take hers in your own and squeeze. You need the comfort it brings as much as she does.

You weren’t so innocent to think jousts were always simple fun, but you didn’t expect to watch a man die today. This isn’t the first death you’ve witnessed, though it is different this time. Old men and women breathing their last breath as you and Maester Luwin shush them to their last sleep cannot compare to death this horrific.

You could only pray to the gods that the next joust didn’t end this bloody. 

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be weekly if life is good to me, or monthly is life decides to facefuck me raw. :)
> 
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